Well I don’t know about you but I’m
ready for another Olympics.

I enjoyed the one in August. It
brightened up a horrendously dull month. It’s rather pleasant sitting
in bed with a cup of tea watching other people exert themselves –
but enough of Adrian Chiles’ presenting efforts.

I watched a bit of the Paralympics
until I was traumatised by the carnage in the wheelchair racing. And
how could you keep faith with the Paralympic ideals when the medal
winners had their treasured gongs snatched away from them and were
forced to compete for them all over again?

As there’s a long gap between now
and the London Olympics I propose a new-style Olympics which will be
far more entertaining than the Greek model, even taking into account
the lack of womens’ beach volleyball so popular with the chaps.

It will be a competition where the
competitors won’t worry about dodgy judging decisions, where they
will look triumph and disaster in the face and treat those imposters
just the same.

Animal Olympics. Kipling might even
approve.

The final programme of events is yet to
be decided and I’m open to new suggestions but I’ve come up with a few
provisional ideas.

Event One: Monkey Cycling. I know
what you’re thinking. Yes, you might get a few stray hairy tufts
sprouting from beneath the lycra but that occasionally happens with
sportsmen and women. We don’t condemn them for it.

The monkeys would love it,
mountainbiking through the jungle like maniacs, going for overhanging
bananas, peeling them and eating them while steering with the other
hand.

I saw a teenager the other day cycling
while simultaneously talking on his mobile, eating a beefburger and
smoking a cigarette. If he can do it in the centre of Cheltenham, a
monkey could surely manage to pluck, eat and ride his way around a
mountainbike race.

Monkey road racing would be a
hoo-hoo-hoo-hoot. To satisfy the animal cruelty people, the
contestants would have to be intelligent enough to sign a contract
with their national squad and consent to drug-testing (EPO rather
than a new arthritis drug). They might insist on a clause about
being paid in peanuts but should only be encourage among our animal sportspersons to reduce the overall expenses of the Games.

Pigs are naturals for field events. A
piggy pole-vault would be worth watching. If they gain extra points
for flying, they just might, surely?. A wood fire would need to be
lit nearby and a consignment of baps ordered so that, in the unlikely event of a tragic accident with
the pole, there could be a nice spit roastand refreshment for the spectators.

In general, just to make things more
interesting, naturally fast creatures shouldn’t be allowed to exhibit their
skills. Let the show-off cheetahs do rifle shooting. See how they cope with immobility.

Let the lazy, most indolent creatures
make the most effort – a kind of animal fat camp. Those emperor
penguins, for instance. They gave up flying aeons ago and since then they’ve done
nothing more than stroll. If they have the stamina to walk hundreds
of miles, training to run 26 should be a breeze. Panda tennis. Hippo hockey.

The boxing. You might expect kangaroos but
they’re too good at it and I abhor violence and bloodshed. I prefer
the thought of boxing sloths and a gentler Quaker style of slo-mo
pugilism. Imagine the tension, watching as they hang upside down
eyeing each other. You might even catch a glimpse of the red fire of
aggression – just before they both fall asleep.

The gymnastics would have to be left to
the fleas. They have been confined to circuses for too long. It’s
time for them to quit the Big Top and prove their worth on the world
stage – even if it is the size of a pin-head.

I’ve also pencilled in giraffe
canoeing, show-jumping moles and meerkat volleyball – they have the
height, the swift reactions and such accurate little fists.

Elephants might be good at basketball –
they are expert at flinging and catching buns and bread rolls – but I
feel they are more suited to the AO pool (sponsored by the
Tellytubbies) where they could take part in relay races.

They might struggle with the
breast-stroke but they could probably manage the front crawl.

In any case, they are perfectly turned
out for swimming events. They’ve already got their trunks on.

It’s rare these days that I get chance to notch up a “first” at something.

So I’m pleased to announce that hallelujah – I am no longer a conference virgin.

Conferences never interested me, which was just as well as I never had the chance to attend any. But when the call came for this one, I had to accept. The thought of a paid away-day from work and not even having to take my own sandwiches was too good to resist.

The experience wasn’t without some pain but on the whole was comfortable. Various people talked me through it and it was interspersed with breaks during which nearly-hot water and tea bags were served.

There was a distinct feeling that you weren’t regarded as a Player unless you were taking urgent calls from the office on your mobile phone but as mine had suffered a serious neurological defect that morning, I’d left it at home on charge.

Lunch was a “fusion” buffet. I concluded it’s short for “confusion” as there were Thai pattie things, Chinese spring rolls and Indian samosas and bhagees alongside quiche and ham sandwiches. A kind of “Around the World in Forty Nibbles” effort.

There were desserts too; chocolate gateaux, French tarts and sliced fruit but, tragically, they were served without cream.

Only one of the powerpoint presentations went wrong and no-one got drunk, so I suppose the conference could be counted as a success.

I have to say though, that I was expecting more. There was no-one remotely like Alan Partridge, for a start. All I got was a folder of papers repeating all the powerpoint presentations I’d seen and a badge with my name on it. I thought there might be a goody bag to take home, a free pen, or a nice pencil.

It was a strain at times, too. There was an awful lot of sitting. You can only cross and uncross your legs so many times in a day ( not in a Sharon Stone-type way). I got restless but there was no room to stretch my legs. As the hours went on, my dodgy knee got so bored it began to ache.

The only exercise available was going to the loo. It’s very hard to get out of breath doing pelvic floor exercises. It’s certainly not something I ever attempted at the gym.

I wrote on the “comments” sheet that they might consider including some activities into the day. A little tai chi to start? A programme of anti-DVT exercises and a jog around the block before lunch.

They could also source more interesting delegates. There was supposed to be networking but quite a lot of people seemed deadly dull. I was sorely tempted to drop something outrageous into the conversation but I bottled out. I was, after all, with the boss. And there’s the chance of another conference – a much bigger one – next month…..

They strut about with cameras with big flashy lenses smiling falsely and have an assistant carrying the fold-up reflective disc that could be either a giant size trampoline or Princess Fiona’s contraceptive.

They boss, wheedle, cajole and delay the proceedings interminably until you have an overwhelming desire to medicate them French-style with biodegradable confetti.

At the wedding I attended recently, the photographer stooped to trying to bribe the manic little ‘uns who kept running into his carefully staged picture scenes with money. Money? These were three year olds. They know nothing about money. They would either have eaten it and choked or hurled it at him and giggled until they were sick.

What is it with wedding photographers these days? Every wedding I attend, the photographer seems to be grabbing more and more of what should be the happy couple’s day.

One recent wedding involved the newly-weds dancing to the tune of the photographer for far longer than they were involved with the vicar. There were shots of the bride’s preparations (Oooh look! Here are the shoes, here is the hairdresser, here is the bride scowling as she’s caught trying to reach that stubborn itchy bit of ear wax with a cotton wool bud, here is the bride’s fattest bridesmaid trying hard to get rid of the VPL in a skin-tight satin dress).

There were photos of the bride leaving her home – photos of her arriving at the church – photos in the church leaving the church – outside the church – leaving the church grounds – arriving at the reception – greeting guests – with family and friends – at the nearest scenic spot – on a bridge over a river – at the nearest tourist view – with the local rustic – at the bus stop – at the reception – cutting the cake – greeting guests at the evening do – having the first dance…. (and I only made one of those up).

The last I saw of the photographer, he was lying on his back on the dance floor trying to take arty shots of the happy couple having their first dance. I nearly poked him in the fisheye.

Most marriages aren’t consummated on the day – the celebrations drag on far too long for that. But you can imagine the happy couple finally collapsing into bed when the wardrobe door creaks open, a soft-focus long lens is exposed and a smarmy voice announces “Nearly done…just a couple more shots…”

The amazing thing is that no-one seems to mind. I suppose if you’re paying the snapper best part of a grand for a deluxe wedding album of a million colour pictures interlaced with hand-crafted tissue with a cover hewn thinly as gossamer from finest Carerra marble, you don’t mind how long he takes – just as long as he makes the bride look ravishing and not ravished (you can tell the ones that have been – their offspring are swinging on the altar rail and causing general havoc).

In my day the photographer attended to snap off a few pics of me and dad walking up the path to the church; he was there to do all the group photos after the ceremony and that was that. An hour and a half of his time. Tops. He never hung around because he had to be at Kingsholm for 3pm to cover the rugby. The album is made of cardboard with paper inside. It’s pretty ordinary. Some of the photos are black and white. It does the job, though.

When they were young, the kids were unbelieving that the sweet unspeccy girl and the bloke with the ridiculously wide tie and Boris Johnson hair could possibly have turned into their parents. When they got older it was simply yawn-worthy. A historical record of a load of relatives they couldn’t even remember or didn’t know. We’d just end up doing a head-count of all those who had died. The only good thing was it made you want to celebrate survival.

The other problem with wedding photographs is that in most of them, yes the bride looks lovely but…er.. how can I put this…. actually, very similar or indeed exactly the same in each picture.

These days the dress costs so much that at 11.45pm she’s still wearing the same gown she poured herself into at 9.30am only with sweat patches.

To make a lavish album worthwhile she should have different outfits for different scenes. Go the whole hog – get different hair and makeup too – rather like a “Hello” mag shoot or a film set.

Adam and Eve by the lakeside in bits of skimpy fake leopardskin, Anthony and Cleopatra with grapes posed by the doric columns, The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Esmerelda for the top of the church tower? No? Oh all right then but definitely Goth Bride of Dracula for the evening do. At least that would ensure the little kids cleared off to bed early.

My message to wedding photographers would be Royal and pithy “make it snappy and naff orf.”

Leave everyone to have a good time without worrying about trespassing on a shot or tripping over all the photographic gear littering the place.

After all, in this digital age, there are never going to be the disasters of the old days when it was possible to take pictures without a film in the camera. So you’re practically guaranteed good snaps. And if the photographer does turn out to have left the lens cap on, the guests might have far more interesting shots on their little automatics and their phones.

Never worth spending too much time or money on a wedding album. If you’re foolish enough to marry in your late twenties – statistically the age with the strongest chance of break-up – after five years it may well end up being pecked by the seagulls in landfill anyway.

Just thinking aloud because I heard a spokesman for an organisation called Cycle Britain on the radio just now. He said a survey had shown that women don’t cycle because it makes their hair messy and they get sweaty.

Well he’s half right. Only horses sweat, as we all know. Ladies glow. But it does mess your hair. It’s usually nothing that a brush won’t improve but I got caught in a monsoon the other day and was severely compromised.

It was only a drizzle when I started out so thought I’d kind of gather all the hair into the helmet, as Rastas do in their big woolly hats (only my helmet isn’t that big, obviously or I would fall off my bike) but it all went wrong when a monsoon swept across the Severn Vale.

It was an atrocious hair day. People at work kept saying “Wow. Those waves are really trendy.” I kept saying “Wow, thanks. Now do sod off.”

The riding, however (and I didn’t tell them this) was worth all the bad hair. Extremely invigorating and amazing getting soaked to the skin. I got so wet I poured water out of my shoes. Brilliant.

Anyway Cycle Britain are trying to encourage women on to bicycles by saying that if they pedal slowly and wear frocks they too will look like Elle Macpherson. Nice try, Cycle Britain but why does there always have to be a role model?

I suppose I could wear a dress and pedal pushers on an Oxford bike with flat pedals and a chain-guard but, to be honest, I would find it really difficult to go slowly.

I’m lucky to have a good combination of road, lane and path on my route to work. Over the summer I’ve got to like being in the cut and thrust of traffic; the way, if you look at drivers, they become human beings who’ll make way for you with a wave and a smile.

The banter with the roadworks guys who like to tease by making the temporary cycleways as narrow as possible.

“Hey love, you should be able to wheely down there on that bike.” Very droll.

It’s rewarding beating a Porsche to the off at traffic lights (it only happened the once but I’ll never stop bleating on about it, sorry) and whizzing past stationary traffic.

You get to know the precise point (about five minutes into the ride) where the endorphins kick in and you feel light and free and fast and think “yeah. this was definitely a good idea.”

You’re in touch with the elements because you feel the weather, the strength and direction of the breeze, the glow of the sunshine on your arms, the suddeness of the rain showers.

The nice thing is that there are lots of different kinds of bike available for women. They don’t have to do the mountainbike or road bike thing. There are comfier,cleaner ways – ways that can encompass shopping and nice shoes and skirts, even.

But as a woman cyclist, you do need to have a thick skin. One of the girl cyclists interviewed on the radio said she got laughed at by everyone in the office when she arrived fresh from the bike, red-faced with hair sticking to her face.

I got spotted arriving in the car park and have been bloody “Lara Croft” ever since. Not sure who she is but I presume she wears shorts and a rucksack? Shame it wasn’t Elle Macpherson but there you go…

Anyway, like the girls on the radio said, it’s not roses all the way as a woman cyclist. But the positives definitely outweigh the negatives.

Gathered the last of the Spartan apples yesterday. A bumper crop. Best I can remember.

I netted the tree one year but it was horrible seeing the blue tits and robins getting trapped underneath it and panicking. I like Italy but I don’t have the Italian taste for small birds. Now the birds take half to a third of the crop. Can’t reasonably expect them to tell the difference between the fruit trees and the bird table can I? At least this year there has been plenty to go around.

Seems appropriate to post this, one of my favourite poems, especially now at this time of year with the apples on the grass, the early mist spread low over the fields and the tower of Gloucester Cathedral spectral in the early morning sun.

Ode to Autumn – John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shellsWith a sweet kernel; to set budding more,And still more, later flowers for the bees,Until they think warm days will never cease,For Summer has o’erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may findThee sitting careless on a granary floor,Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hookSpares the next swath and all its twined flowers;And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keepSteady thy laden head across a brook;Or by a cider-press, with patient look,Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, – While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying dayAnd touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble softThe redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

She’s honest, she’s very very bright and accomplished and she has lived. She’s also an excellent cook in the old- fashioned sense. You won’t find her with trendy-shaped plates, drizzling a soup-con of this over a tian of that with half a stuffed miniature tomato on the side and a radish, handcarved into the shape of a Maserati.

Even as an alcoholic, she is accomplished. She never let consuming several bottles of gin get in the way of a good meal – preparing it, I mean. The woman was a professional cook to the landed gentry and a tour de force in the kitchen although she was invariably tanked up on two bottles of gin.

I loved her from the moment she explained that being a barrister suited her utterly.

“It’s the perfect job for an alcoholic, you stick on funny clothes, you are rude to people and you get paid for it.”

During one medical examination, the doctor was flummoxed by the astronomically high level of quinine in her blood. He thought she’s been living in an African malaria belt. It was probably the tonic water, she explained.

“Four pints a day for twelve years…..to go with the two pints of gin a day.”

I am grateful to Clarissa for so graphically demonstrating the slippery slope down which we must not slide.

But I digress. Clarissa was talking about comfort meals in one of the newspapers this weekend and I wondered if comfort food is a universal thing.

Would we all choose the same sort of meal if it was the last thing we ate before the gallows?

Would we pine for something hot with gravy if we were stuck in the middle of an Antarctic winter?

Would you be salivating for a home-cooked pie if you were newly-returned from a corner of Mongolia where the dish of the day is always boiled sheeps’ intestines?

I don’t know. Is one man’s Lancashire Hotpot another man’s Braised Celery with a Drizzle of Wasabi?

I’ve only ever had three appraisals. They have been informal “We’re happy. You happy?” kind of chats. It’s seemed a bit of a waste of time, declaring the bleedin’ obvious.

This year’s appraisal, I suspect, will be different; more focussed and constructive. I’m not entirely looking forward to it. I might be expected to explain why my timekeeping of late has been so flaky. There have been several reasons; front of bike felt wobbly so looked in vain for headset spanner…. er….. back tyre was a bit soft but husband had taken track pump to his office so was forced to use the dodgy pump which lets out more air than you put in…. er…. quite a strong north-easterly headwind on the by-pass. (note to self: make up better, fictitious reasons that non-cycling boss will comprehend.)

Perhaps I will be asked to demonstrate how I propose to extend my knowledge in the forthcoming year. “I dunno” will probably not give the correct impression so I must think of appropriate words.

I’m told appraisals are most positive when they enable you to talk confidentially about expectations, performance and outcomes. (note to self: 1) use those words 2) think of more.)

It made me wonder if appraisals are so valued in the workplace why not apply them to relationships?

I’m generally in favour of marriage as the best way of raising children but the divorce rate demonstrates that marriage can be a tricky blighter.

I’ve always had a feeling that a seven-year review with a selectable temporary/permanent opt-out clause would be sensible. It would enable discussion, broaden understanding and stop tiny irritations growing into large areas of inflammation.

Annual appraisals might be even more rigorous and effective.

Timing would be crucial. Most married couples celebrate anniversaries but they are not the time to go over potentially difficult issues. Best to crack open a bottle, enjoy each other in surroundings where you both feel most relaxed and stay away from the knife drawer. Now would be a good time or before the end of October and the shorter, bleak days of winter.

The unmarrieds make their own rules; spoken or unspoken. As long as they’re both working to similar and clearly understood sets of commitments, they might benefit from appraisals. Chaotic couples whose lives are constantly changing would not benefit. In any case, they wouldn’t be in the same room for long enough.

Similarly, no appraisals are necessary for new couples who are still lounging about in the soft towelling bathrobes and fluffy pink slippers of attraction. They wear rose-tinted spectacles and run on dopamine, indulging fully in the mad-for-it time when you can never talk enough, never touch enough, never be separated and never think for an instant that you won’t always be together forever.

An appraisal at that point, when emotion has got common sense trussed firmly in a locked trunk and is sitting on it, would be pointless. Things could not be more perfect. You are only comparing your dreams and if they don’t match, you don’t think it matters anyway.

And what about friends? Would there be any value in appraising your friendships?

“Okay, let’s start with a brief review… We’ve known each other for twenty years and forty-seven days but you were a week late with my birthday card this year, you still owe me a tenner from that Italian meal back in June when you didn’t have any change and you never did give me a copy of that Mahler symphony….blah blah…”

It wouldn’t work. It would just seem like carping. Any true friend worth their salt would simply reiterate that you were bonkers, pass the chocolate and change the subject.

I’m not even sure that the bigger relationships would bear the close scrutiny of an annual appraisal. Can you tease apart the core components of an emotionally-driven mix of love, needs, habits and co-operation under the dazzling inspection light of sensible analysis?

Can you imagine giving each other a sheet asking the questions: How has it been for you? Are there areas where you think you’ve achieved? How satisfied are you with the situation overall? Are there areas where things could be improved? What are your plans for growth personally and as a couple over the next year?

Blimey. So tempting to screw it up, stuff it down the back of the sofa, uncork a bottle and turn on Mindless TV. There is always a Family Guy you haven’t watched.

Okay, forget the questions. Maybe just draw up lists of pros and cons. But what if the Life-Enhancingly Good list is a lot shorter than the Crippling and Stultifyingly Bad list? How would you begin to talk about adjusting the imbalance?

It might be impossible without a third party, a relationship counsellor who would watch and listen, picking up the body language which is more revealing than words ever are.

There might be compulsory workshops. Women would benefit from attending “Why Men Calculate the Breast Measurements of Every Woman They Meet” and “Why Flatulence is Always Funny.”

Men would do well to take in “Why She Needs To Talk and How To Look Interested” and “How To do Compliments.”

If it all goes pear-shaped, at least you’ve both got someone else to blame.

It could be a big positive to discover that the strongest bond you still have is a strong dislike of the sappy, speccy, sandal-wearing, wooden-beaded, gypsy-skirted spinster relationship counsellor.

There might be considerable pleasure to be had from shared loathing.

Yes, it’s a negative thing but probably more unifying than an appraisal.